


Sweet Friday Nights

by recursion_after_dark (recursion_error)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Asexual Character, Explicit Consent, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Off-Screen Negotiation, The Archive is a Normal Job, guided masturbation, spiders not actually appearing, the muddy waters between physical and emotional intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recursion_error/pseuds/recursion_after_dark
Summary: A relaxing evening passed in pleasant company, spiders not invited.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 4
Kudos: 127





	Sweet Friday Nights

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine was really feeling those "asexual, but horny" vibes, so I wrote them a pick me up in the same vein. Enjoy!

The workday officially ended at half six. The commute wasn't particularly long nor particularly pleasant, especially when only one of them had a license and tended to forget it. Following errands, brushing off the shoulder contact of other workers heading home or to their shifts, and taking appropriate steps to tend to the plants, spiders, and cats all told the evening started more rightly at eight.

This was, of course, assuming that Jon didn't stay late. That Martin didn't have a spider-parenting emergency that _absolutely had to happen right now_. That the both of them didn't get caught up in a pointless debate about where they stored the candles or whether soups could be frozen and reheated. Domestic bliss, truly, but it meant that this particular evening their plans would be pushed into the AMs if they actually went through with them (and of course they would). Despite the casualties of yet another mason jar alternately lost to the occupation by the arachnid hoard or donated as a nest box and enrichment item for the false widow family, and an embarrassing take on dinner for two grown men in their late twenties, they were still determined to get on with it.

These events and their necessity are how Martin found himself cross-legged at the...headboard is a strong word. Head of the bed, certainly, but perhaps more 'leaned against the wall against which they left the pillows for convenience sake on the perpetually bed shaped futon, unlike the one posing as a sofa in the main room'. In any case, this was how Martin found himself at 9:55 postmeridian on a Friday evening, cardigan in place but trousers swapped for a predictably anxious boyfriend.

Jon may chafe at that, something about boyfriend being undignified and childish. Martin maintained that anyone who put off things they actually enjoyed out of fear of imagined social pressures had no say in whether or not they had surpassed late teen maturity.

Regardless, he carded fingers through Jon's hair, gently working through the tangles that had built up since the man's last _proper_ shower.

"Jon."

" _What_."

He sighed, and reached for the hinge of Jon's jaw. "Clench that any harder and you're going to need the dentist," he chided. Jon's expression didn't loosen, but the join between mandible and zygomatic process did.

"You um, you remember your words?"

"No Martin, sometime between the last time we did this and the trip home and the constant reminders I seem to have forgotten them."

Martin sighed, and pressed a little harder on the arch at the top of his jawbone. Jon winced, but relaxed further, and hummed.

"Yes, fine, I remember now can you please get on with it."

"Eventually you're going to thank me for caring about your safety."

"Doubt it."

"Hush, you. Lose the shorts."

The mass of wriggling—punctuated with utterance of relatively archaic swears in dead languages—finally resolved with Jon down to an undershirt, face smushed safely into one of Martin's thighs. His peace didn't last long, of course, Martin plying the silence a touch longer than Jon preferred, waiting for when his anxiousness resolved into either petulance, or acceptance. The scrawny mess in is lap twisted again, vying with his own hair to get an eyefull of Martin's smug, and patient, face.

"Waiting for something?" he bit out. Martin smiled, and pulled the fringe back from Jon's forehead, gathering it with the rest into a messy but tight bundle at the crown of his head.

"Just figured you'd get to it when you wanted to," Martin offered.

Jon's hand materialized between his own thighs, pulling and tugging—lightly, out of respect for physics and friction. Martin wasn't nearly so kind to his scalp, wrenching his head this way and that.

Initially Jon froze with each yank of his hair, but eventually he managed to even out his own strokes despite the distraction.

"There we are."

Jon hissed at him, finally opting for acceptance and petulance.

"What, something you need to say?"

His head shook.

"Good." Martin started playing with the neck seam of the shirt Jon still wore. His hands would stay north of it, for the most part, but he was hardly one to abstain from petting the soft scarring there, or from continuing to elevate Jon's peripheral nervous activity.

Soon Jon started to wince to his own rhythm rather than to Martin's, and Martin released his hair to pull the tube of scentless lubricant from the farther reaches of the mattress to hold it close to his own chest.

"Need something?" he asked, waving it over Jon's head. Headier, eyes fogged from his fueled arousal, some of Jon's anxiety still clung to the edges. Sighing, Martin hauled him up to press them chest to back, holding Jon around the waist and dispensing some of the lube into his own hand.

Jon's pulse spiked, and Martin hushed him gently, laying his hand—palm full—atop his own knee. Not so close as to make any actual _contact_ with Jon, but within easy reach, inviting. When one of his hands inched toward the offered 'help', Martin looped his free arm out and back down, pinning Jon's to his sides. If he stretched and strained, his fingertips barely scraped against the green woolen cuff, let alone reaching skin and slick.

"I'll do anything for you, you know," Martin whispered. "Anything you ask me to, some things you don't, and nothing you don't want."

Jon shuddered, and managed to inch his fingertips to brush against Martin's exposed wrist, clearly at the limit of extension for those fatigued and oh so stubborn ligaments.

"Right now, you need to ask. With-with your words."

"...ple _ase_ ," Jon managed, and Martin buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, kissing the tissue there.

"Of course! Thank you for asking, Jon."

He pulled back enough to free the arm Jon'd been straining, and return to petting over, under, and through the fabric of Jon's undershirt. Higher functions occupied processing what their exchange _meant_ , what their little plans and games and agreements meant, Jon's hindbrain drew back a portion from Martin's palm and immediately began spreading it around.

The chill of the substance shocked Jon back to control of his senses and he keened and froze, hand clenching.

His abdomen contorted, conflicting information from sensation below and overthinking above, and Martin shushed him.

"It's okay. You're okay. Stroke."

Jon did.

Martin continued to lead him, Jon's hand fundamentally Martin's third, moving at his command as Jon's stress hormones evened out.

"Good, good boy. Think you can keep that up for me?"

Jon nodded, and Martin relaxed in turn, attention wandering from where Jon's hand was slowly turning tacky from the dryness in the air, to the spasms in his legs as he managed to reidentify particularly active nerves, to his own personal peace in helping bring this about for Jon. The tackiness wouldn't be manageable for long, though.

"Stop," he whispered, kissing the shell of Jon's ear, antihelix smooth and warm beneath his lips, a subtle blood flow check. There may be no bonds but safety remained his top priority.

He giggled at Jon's indignance when told to collect more lube from Martin's hand, still sat on his thigh.

Just as the heat conservation between Martin's own nervous system and his jumper was trending toward unbearable, the peripheral twitches along Jon's unoccupied limbs intensified. A small orchestra of twitches and trembles spoke volumes, volumes more than Jon would ever be comfortable expressing himself aloud in the context.

Fortunately he had Martin.

"Tell me what you feel, Jon."

"I..." he started, panting. "I'm...tense. Close? My wrist isn't pleased with me but—" his momentary coherency was cut off with a moan, and Martin kissed his hair.

"That's good, very good Jon. Think you'll be coming for me tonight?"

Jon started to nod, then stilled as much as he could; nothing could stop the trembling through him at this point short of a cold lube filled hand to the face, but Martin wasn't that sort of cruel.

"It's okay, I'll even let you, if you want," he offered. Jon shook, more, and nodded fully.  
Martin grinned, love seeping into his voice, as he said "Of course, Jon. Whatever you need. Whenever you need to, just ask," emphasis practically enough to set Jon over the edge of he weren't still so stubborn. If he weren't so stubborn they wouldn't be in this situation, of course, wouldn't meet these needs this way, and Martin loved him the more for it.

Jon's hand continued to move, lubricant continuing to last, but only for a few jerky moments before he started to stammer, "Please, Martin, please, let-let me. May I-can I—"

"Of course, Jon," Martin cut him off, drinking in the following moans and whines and shakes as Jon tipped himself over the edge and into a jolting, damp-eyed tangle of limbs safely cushioned in Martin's lap.

As the tremors left him, Martin leaned to grab a cloth and toweled off his own hand before extracting Jon's arms and doing the same for him. A softer, gentler, chamois lay folded neatly and expectantly beside them, for Jon to wrap himself in once he settled.  
Martin sighed, and began to work through the knots he'd added to his beloved's hair, waiting for him to resurface.

Ounce by gram by drop Jon came back to himself, some residual shakes leaving his system as he uncurled himself. Martin unfurled the chamois and Jon took it gratefully, covering his hips with it effectively banishing his legs and the mess between them out of sight and out of mind.

"I..." Jon croaked, then coughed, voice delightfully wrecked from the force of his own emotions. "Thank you," he managed.

"Of course." Martin knew he could sound like a broken record, a stuck tape, but that was rather the point.


End file.
